AT FIRST SIGHT: A Novella

by Parris Afton Bonds

  Barely had Evangeline assured her in English mixed with the smattering of Swedish words Evangeline knew that all had gone well at the market, than the ample-busted woman, not that much taller than Evangeline’s own five feet, declared, “You meet Peter Erichsson, ja?”

  The young man in the chair plucked the damp cloth from his uptilted face. He turned on her an eager smile and apple-red cheeks that framed a porcine nose. He could not have been much past eighteen. “God dag, FökenWainwright. Jag har hört så mycket om dig.”

  She glanced inquiringly at Gertrude and John, who grumpily interpreted, “Peter here says he has heard much about you.”

  At her puzzled looked, John added, “A young woman who owns a tavern makes for good gossip.”

  She supposed she should have expected that, in the intervening four years since her arrival in the New World and the intervening twenty miles between her inn and Fort Christina, word of her would filter back to the Swedish colony. Gertrude, who grudgingly acknowledged her husband’s business had increased three-fold in the fortnight since Evangeline had come to work for them, doubtless had helped spread the gossip in the past two weeks.

  Evangeline dipped Peter a curtsey. “God dag.”

  Hanging her gray woolen cloak on a wall peg, she slipped past the three to the kitchen, where she discarded her gloves and unloaded her basket of herbs. As anxious as Gertrude was to see her married off and out of the cabin and away from her husband’s assessing eye, Evangeline was equally anxious. She was not destitute. Yet. But vulnerable, aye. She could not afford to alienate the Croxtons.

  With the large number of available males at Fort Christina, outnumbering the females by five to one, male customers were flocking to the barber-surgeon suddenly

  But she was not predisposed toward marriage. She was too accustomed to the autonomy accorded by an indulgent father and brother and later by The Virgin Queen’s three derelict males.

  Those three put up with her periodic emotional outbursts that would leave them glancing from one to the other with brows raised, then shrug off their bewilderment and shuffle off to safer locales, such as the outhouse, stable, barn, orchard, or scullery.

  She grabbed a bucket and brush and attacked the Croxton kitchen’s grime and dirt. Fifteen minutes late, from behind her, Gertrude cleared her throat.

  On all fours, Evangeline looked over her shoulder. “Aye?”

  The Swedish woman’s expression was as soft as a freshly-plumped goose down pillow. “St. Knut’s Day . . . tomorrow . . . you dance? Peter, a good boy he is. A chandler’s apprentice, he wears the blue apron. Soon, he has his own candle shop.”

  Evangeline smiled and shrugged her shoulders, as if she did not fully understand. The rest of the day and that night, her mind hopped into a squirrel cage, spinning frenziedly. How long could she stall? If not, where to next? And what about Rasannock, Gantu, and Bonnie Charlie?

  As if in answer to the last, Bonnie Charlie, his bushy hair contained by a coonskin cap, appeared at her side the next morning at the fort’s trading post. She was looking over the collection of iron spoons, spread on the knife-notched counter. Wooden spoons did not do justice to exact medication measurements like the iron ones.

  “Got yew a good price for Molly,” he muttered. “A fellow up Turtle Falls Creek shelled out twenty-eight riksdalers for the cantankerous mule.”

  Mild relief took the edge off her worry. Since leaving her at the Swedish fort, Bonnie Charlie had taken to the woods, appearing at the trading post every couple of days to sell furs he had trapped– and to keep tabs on her. “Good,” she murmured, not wishing to attract the attention of gray-bearded old Larss, who was folding a horse blanket at the end of the counter. “We may need it, sooner than I thought.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Gertrude Croxton wants me out of her cabin as early as possible. She is endeavoring to pair me off at dance tomorrow. With a Peter Erichsson.”

  “St. Knut’s celebration – the Thirteenth Day of Christmas. And young Peter Erichsson – that’s enough to make yewr innards crawl.” Bonnie Charlie scratched the back of his sun-cooked neck. “I say we bide our time. Word is that an English galleon has sent scouting parties ashore up and down the Large Potato Creek. Mayhap, we’uns be safer here, at the fort, for a bit more.”

  Was there such a feeling as safe?

  * * *

  Feet spread, Baron William Craven braced his body, thick in arms and shoulders, against both the bobbing of the poop deck and the buffeting wind, loudly whipping the sails. He brought the Swedish settlement into the view of his telescope.

  Four score or more of log farmsteads were scattered around the fort – guarded by the breastworks and palisades with what looked to be a couple of twelve-pounder cast iron cannons and several three-pounder brass guns. But with the Swedes and English on good terms, there would be no need for a show of force here.

  “Take a sounding,” he told the leadsman.

  The man bobbed his red Monmouth-capped head. “Aye aye, General,” he said with a tone that approached surliness and ambled off

  “And shake a leg.” It was William’s ironbound regard for discipline that had propelled him to the top of Cromwell’s regime. The Sovereign’s scurvy crew with its lax morale could use a taste of the cat-o’-nine tails.

  He was finding this General-at-Sea assignment irksome. He was a man born to command from a desk not a deck. But he had volunteered for this expedition because of the opportunity it presented. If it took searching from Spanish Florida to French Quebec, he would find Evangeline.

  Was it possible to both love and hate someone? And did not love also mean suffering? Both his and hers? He could put an end to their suffering if she would but ask him to forgive her.

  He had done what he could to prevent the execution of her father and brother. How could he have walked away, when to do so meant to lose her? But it was with swift justice that Sutcliff, as Major General, had marched her father and brother off to their execution.

  After she vanished, William had fruitlessly scoured the British Isles and all their ports, verifying the name of every female passenger on each English ship’s manifest.

  Then by chance, when traveling through the port of Weymouth last year, he dined with the local governor, who shared over a bounty of wine about the terrible January storm of ’49 that had driven a Finnish merchant ship, bound for the American colonies, into Weymouth’s harbor to replenish supplies.

  Until midnight the governor had entertained in his castle the ship’s officers – and a young English noblewoman of considerable beauty who had bought passage that very evening. He distinctly remembered her because, “. . . particular woman was unforgettable, as if the pox scar square between her brows was a star that that singled her out as someone special.”

  Surely, that English noblewoman was Evangeline. He felt certain she was among the nearly 25,000 European settlers in the hamlets that that perilously teetered on the rocks along this miserable time-forgotten seaboard. Most likely, since she had sailed aboard a Finnish ship, she was to be found in one of the Finnish settlements that dotted the shoreline.

  From the main deck came a commotion, and William turned to see Adam Sutcliff coming aboard the forecastle. Striding among the sailors, he hailed them with easy confidence as they greeted and made way for him. What was he doing back again, so soon?

  The man irritated him, taking it for granted that he was an equal to a baron. William awaited the man’s approach that was repeatedly delayed while he exchanged shoulder slaps and gibes with the crew. He amused himself with them as he would with his hounds.

  “What?” Sutcliff asked, taking the short flight of stairs to the poop deck two at a time, “An illustrious Sea Dog such as yourself, Craven, has no Hollanders walking the plank?”

  William would not let this piss-pot of a mercenary rile his temper. “You have an accounting to do, Sutcliff. The information you passed along resulted in our scouting forays finding only Dutch farmers. Not forts
.”

  “And finding scythes, not swords, eh?” But his attention had wandered to something behind William. “I’d watch that lead line.”

  William half turned to find the coil of rope playing out rapidly, one of its loops dangerously underfoot. Stepping free, he snapped closed his telescope, tucking it under his arm. It irked him that Sutcliff stood a full head taller, and he swung away, heading below for the Great Cabin. Sutcliff fell in behind him.

  The cabin spanned the width of the stern with large windows. The bolted-down, oak desk was strewn with charts and nautical instruments. He doffed his peaked hat and plowed fingers through his carefully shorn auburn hair. “What can possibly be your defense, Sutcliff? Your information was abominably erroneous.”

  “You wound my pride,” he said reproachfully.

  “That would be difficult to do, given your excessive ego. And your mission, you completed it?”

  Nudging aside his rapier, the man hunkered a hip on the desk’s edge and reached for a walnut in a teak bowl William kept at hand. “Oh, never you worry about the land purchase. I am meeting with a guide there, at Fort Christina.”

  The man was lying through his perfect teeth, but William only remarked, “I see you have burnt yourself.” He was pleased that the man’s handsome visage was, at least, temporarily marred.

  Sutcliff cracked the shell with the crush of one palm and glanced idly out the window. “I do believe you are overstepping your orders in these waters. That fort yonder flies the Swedes’ colors, not the Hollanders’. What do you plan on doing, Craven – run through every settlement, ringing a bell, asking if anyone has seen the poor young woman to whom you were once affianced?”

  Teeth clenched, he dropped into the chair behind the desk. It was damned annoying how the man went for his Achilles heel. No one liked being known as the rejected suitor. What was worse, Sutcliff had somehow divined William’s intention. Perhaps the lout had knowledge of the warrant he had procured?

  “What preposterous thought in that addled head of yours would make you think I am looking for the Lady Evangeline – or even want her back, for that matter?”

  Carelessly Sutcliff tossed the crunched hulls on the desk. “From my brief recollection of her in court, she was too good for you, Craven. What’s more, she knew it.”

  That was a charge he would not let himself contemplate. Vividly, he remembered as a twelve-year-old, awakening with intense anticipation on New Year’s Day and finding, as part of the Christmas season gifts, a new musket, its metal trimmings gleaming coldly like the Christmas star. As an adult, an even greater anticipation had gripped him as the days had moved closer to his marriage with Evangeline.

  “You are such an uncouth scoundrel, Sutcliff. I’ll see you swinging from the yardarm, if I have any say.”

  “But you do not, alas.” Sutcliff smiled amicably and popped another shelled walnut into his mouth. “Betting man that I am, I would wager that Cromwell feels my mission overrides yours.”

  Odd’s fish, the man was a most contemptable cur. No loyalties. Playing side against side. Even his long mane of hair bore witness to the savage he was.

  How galling that Sutcliff had free run of the colonies, while he himself was, for all intents and purposes, restricted by Maritime Law to plying the waters offshore in a show of colors to the Dutch settlements. His few excursions ashore had been fruitless but fortunately had not aroused protest from any of the various colonies, yet.

  With scant patience, William grunted and brushed away the crushed walnut hulls that littered his desk. “I am devoutly hoping, of course, you won’t finalize the land purchase. Because nothing could give me greater pleasure than returning to Whitehall with your mission failed.”

  Sutcliff laughed. “But you won’t experience that pleasure. Because we both have a vested interest. If I fail, you fail.”

  “Drivel, Sutcliff. Foolish drivel.” But that was Sutcliff to the teeth. The adventurer had nothing to lose. While, he himself, so much more the accomplished man, stood to lose everything – his estates, his authority, his wealth – were his personal undertaking discovered by Whitehall Palace. But never had he failed to bend circumstances to his will.

  “I plan to pay my compliments to New Sweden’s governor.” That was better than sitting here idle, frittering away valuable time, when he could be searching for Evangeline.

  An idea occurred to him. “You have seen the Lady Evangeline Bradshaw, right?”

  “A comely lady.”

  And a lady not for the likes of this ruffian. “Then, while traipsing yonder hinterland, inquire around in the Finnish settlements about her.”

  “My regrets, but my guide and I will be making fast tracks.”

  Sutcliff’s utter indifference frustrated him. “I’ll give you a hundred guineas if you find her.”

  “One hundred guilders. Dutch gold guilders.”

  “You must be mad. I don’t have that kind of money here aboard ship. And certainly not gold guilders.”

  “Do you want me to find her, or don’t you?”

  “How can I trust you?”

  “You insult my integrity, my good man. I have many vile vices but a flimflammer I am not.” Sutcliff crunched another walnut shell. “A voucher against your estate mortgage will suffice.”

  William grew cold with rage but said businesslike, “All right, a voucher on the goldsmiths Morris and Clayton will assure that.” He took a quill from the inkhorn and began to write, swearing with each scratching stroke he would one day write Sutcliff’s death warrant, as well.

  §§ CHAPTER FIVE §§

  For a moment, the Swedish fort’s puppet show reminded Evangeline of Charing Cross’s Punch and Judy puppet show – and other fond memories. Of the ballad mongers on London Bridge, of symphonies at the King’s Theatre, of women in farthingales and men in silks and steel at Whitehall.

  But Cromwell’s regime frowned upon pointless enjoyment. He had shut many inns, and had closed the theatres. Most sports had been banned.

  Boys caught playing stoole ball on a Sunday could be whipped. Women caught doing unnecessary work on the Holy Day could be put in the stocks. Puritan leaders and soldiers had roamed the streets of towns and scrubbed off any make-up found on unsuspecting women. And too colorful dresses were absolutely prohibited.

  Celebrants of St. Knut’s crowded the fort’s streets in a mad mirth of dicing, carding, masking, and drinking, but the main stream flowed eventually across the South River to Tinicum Island that both commanded the entrance to the South River and dominated the fur trade. Like a leaf in a river, she was carried along with the crowd.

  On the island, the latest governor, Johan Risingh, temporarily occupied the stately residence, Printz Hall with its extensive library. A massive two-story manor, the governor’s residence was half fortress, half palace. Loopholes for infantry and embrasures for cannon punctured its upper story. It had cobblestone walls three-feet thick. On its grounds could be found a Lutheran church, a powder house, a dairy barn, a park that included formal gardens, and even a log sauna.

  From one of Printzhoff’s many rooms, a feminine voice trilled a carol that sounded to Evangeline much like a constipated hen. Dancing after the Italian manner was already in progress to the accompaniment of virginals and a host of musicians in the Banqueting Hall, graced by lavish draperies and glass windows imported from Sweden.

  Once divested of her heavy woolen cloak, she felt overdressed in her brown moire dress, bereft of starched white collar and cuffs. But when she had fled England, that type of wardrobe with the dangerously low necklines had been fashionable and all she had to pack with her.

  Worse, now, her stays pushed her breasts upward to the danger point of breathlessness. Or was her breathlessness attributed to the press of the crowd? With three fireplaces, the Banqueting Room was overheated. She sought a place along its walls, far from the concentration of its revelers.

  Yet before long she caught people taking note of her, which invariably happened – and it had no
thing to do with her fair looks or even the prominent small pox mark, a veritable target between her eyes that had elicited much ridicule when she was a child.

  No, it was as if she were a lightning rod that drew one’s attention. In London, she had frequently worn the fashionable mask when out; nonetheless, she found it puzzling that strangers high and low gravitated towards her. And now that she was on the run, as the source of others’ attention, it could well be a death knell for her.

  Of course, she should have expected Peter Erichsson to pay his respects, prodded by Gertrude and her husband John, who accompanied Peter, much like an honor guard. Behind them, maybe fifty men and women were now participating in a round dance far removed from the French dances of courtly procession with which Evangeline was familiar.

  “You dance, ja?” Peter asked. His holly leaf-green eyes peered at her nervously.

  She shook her head and relayed to John, “Tell Peter I do not know the steps to these dances, please.”

  Gertrude’s pleasingly plump face did not look so pleased.

  While John interpreted, Evangeline glanced beyond the three to spot approaching their circle a short gentleman, who looked to be in his late thirties. He was accompanied by an entourage. His peruke’s curls fell upon his wired lace collar, and his slashed doublet did not cover his overhanging belly. He could be none other than the New Sweden Company’s governor. Immediately, John doffed his hat and Gertrude bobbed a curtsey.

  “Rumor has it that you have a guest,” the governor told them, while eying her. His command of English was blunted by his strong Scandinavian accent. “An English damsel in our midst?”

  It was as if the dead calm of a sinister sea swamped the entire Banqueting Hall. So, word had already circulated.

  Evangeline dipped a low curtsey, worthy of King Charles’s court, and, unthinkingly, extended her hand, as only a lady of high birth would do. “An English immigrant, my lord.”

  His thick lips grazed her gloved fingers. “Oh? From where?”